Targeted
by panache2005
Summary: It's been four years since Max left the flock. Now she's working as an assassin. What happens when her next assignment targets Fang?
1. Chapter 1

The small .22 fits perfectly into the contours of my hand. Gently sliding my fingertips over the barrel, I raise it to eye-level, and squeeze the trigger. It burns a hole dead in the center of the target. Satisifed, I take off my safety goggles and pull the plugs out of my ears.

"Very nice, Max," I hear behind me. "But your next assignment is going to require a bit of a larger weapon." I feel myself smile.

"Make sure it's not too heavy," I say, turning around. I place the colt back into its case, and stand back up to face the speaker. He's middle-aged, with a cleft chin and steely grey eyes. He's Archer, one of the world's deadliest men. Despite his reputation, he's been well educated in chivalry; even now, he's holding out his elbow. I link my own through it.

We walk back to the Center. It's a comely building, something that you could expect to find on the cover of _Architectural Digest. _White stucco, red terra-cotta roof, and almost fourteen rooms, the house itself is situated on a 3,000-acre ranch of rolling hills in Tuscany, Italy. The crew meets here in between assignments, to recover, rest, and relax, before leaving on the next one.

Archer opens the back door for me. This leads into the dining room, and I take a seat at the sprawling mahagony table.

* * *

_My name is Maximum Ride. You may know me as the hybrid who took down Itex, who saved the world from satanic dictators. But four years later, I've changed. I no longer have a "Flock," as I so foolishly liked to call it. Instead, I work in an elite team consisting of the most intelligent, most athletic, and most dangerous people in the world. _

_I work as an assassin._

* * *

Archer sets down a fruit smoothie on my left and a packet of information on my right. I sip from the smoothie as I survey the packet. My next assignment is in England, a country I've "visited" only once before. Then, I was supposed to eradicate a subject who sold young women into prostitution. I finished the deed while the subject was in the bathtub.

Now, as I read, I learn that my next subject smuggles diamonds from Africa. Smuggling has never been an issue for an assassination, but apparently this subject employs the labor of young children whose parents owe make-believe debts. The children work all day, being allowed only a one-hour nap for every eight hours of labor. I'm now to assume the identity of this man's neice, a girl visiting London from the English countryside. My British accent is adequate, at best, so I hope this neice (Tara Washington) is known for being quiet.

_

* * *

_

Instead of killing just anyone, we target criminals. Not any old street criminal, mind you, but the powerful, industrious ones, the people society knows, and even sometimes loves. I like to think of my line of work as being moral. Ending a life, of course, is anything but. That's why I chose the career path of ending sinful lives.

* * *

"The subject is expecting a shipment on the twenty-third," Archer explains. "Tara's expected the day before. You'll request a lunch date with your 'uncle,' but, from an inside source, we know that he'll be picking you up from Heathrow with his business associate, a man with a police record. At the lunch, slip the cherry into his beverage."

"Cherry" is our word for "poison." On the rare occasions we discuss our plans in public, we refrain from sounding suspicious by substituting words: "Shoot" is "inject," "drown" is "lather," and "bludgeon" is "bounce."

"We don't want Tara to appear jet-lagged," Archer continues. "You'll be leaving for Chelsea in two days. A week later, you'll fly into Heathrow, London's airport. When you've accomplished the job, meet Richard in Southampton, and come back here."

Archer picks up my empty glass. "I suggest you begin packing."


	2. Chapter 2

_How did I become an assassin? The answer would be simple, "coincidence," of course, but it really wasn't. At least, I don't think it was._

_Archer knew practically knew my identity just by seeing how obsolete I looked at the shelter. I didn't know where else to stay after abandoning the other bird-kids; but I was a clean, well-fed, and confident teenager amongst emaciated and battered women._

_I still remember that first day. Sometimes I play it in my head, like a home video. Archer gave me a cool smile and held out his elbow, a gesture I now find almost paternal. Despite the tough-as-nails front I put on while lodging there, I knew immediately that he could see right through my scowl. "You look like you have a story to tell," he said._

_"You have no idea," I answered._

* * *

Tara's a plain, simple-looking twenty year-old. I dye my brunette hair a shade lighter for it to resemble her mousy brown, and use a cheap foundation to mimick her bad tan. According to the packet, she dresses with a schoolgirl casualness; I'm not too well read on fashion, but I decide a brown polo shirt with a khaki skirt and sandals should suffice. I pull my hair into a careless bun and put on a pair of Harry Potter sunglasses: behold Tara Washington. I make sure to tuck in my wings to better keep them hidden. I flew a little bit before going incognito, but I normally get the maximum amount of flight while in Tuscany. Regardless, it isn't my main form of travel anymore.

I land at Heathrow a few hours later. I immediately spot the subject. He doesn't see me. I take the few remaining seconds to convince myself who I am, and practice my British, my worst accent to date. Then I step in front of him. "Uncle Thompson?" I inquire, pushing my shades down in order to catch his eyes. Tara's also supposed to be obnoxiously bold; the kind of girl who mainly monologues when having a conversation, because she'll never let the other person get a word in (my British accent has to be perfection for this). So I start. "Uncle Thompson! I absolutely knew it was you! I remember from the photograph you sent me last April, of you in the Caribbean. Or was it Canada? I can never remember, so sorry..."

"That's all good and fine," the subject replies, picking up my suitcase and practically jogging up ahead of me. It doesn't take much analyzing to realize that Uncle Thompson doesn't care too much for his neice. I plow through the people, to his side, and chatter away, pretending to be lost in my own words.

"London is so much different from Chelsea! Everything there is brick, you know, and dirt, dirt, dirt for miles! I only recall seeing one paved road the entire time I was there. I'm not one for rural settings, eh, Uncle Thompson? I hear you're the same way. That's why you stayed in London while Father moved out to the country. Oh! About him, his botanizing is going extraordinarily well, he's collected dozens of samples daily..."

And so I talk. I talk while we sit in his Rolls-Royce, about nothing. The subject even acquires a newspaper and starts reading. I pretend not to notice and instead mourn loudly over Tim, Tara's chihuahua who allegedley froze to death last winter.

The car soon pulls up the curb of a very posh restaurant. Waiting outside is the subject's business associate, a Mr. Wheeler. He rushes us into the restaurant, where the first thing he does is order us all wine. As I reach for a glass, I make clear the way I hold it: fingertips lightly squeezing the rim, palm parallel to the wine glass's opening. This way, I'll be able to conceal the small packet of poison in between my fingers and simply pour it into his drink. I do this as I pass my "uncle" his glass. I talk my way through lunch. The poison will take an hour to have the desired effect; in the meantime, I bore the business associate with tales of Chelsea.

Soon, the subject begins to sweat profusely. He loosens his collar, and suddenly puts on his reading glasses (I take this as a sign that he's seeing double--a symptom of the poison). He excuses himself to the bathroom. I sneak a look at my watch. It's been a little more than forty minutes. The subject will begin to cough up blood as the poison causes mass internal bleeding. Then he'll begin to vomit large quantities of blood, resulting in his death.

Ten minutes later, I decide my time as Tara Washington is done. I excuse myself, to the relief of the business associate. I hurry out the door, into the waiting Rolls-Royce. Parker turns around. "Assignment completed?" he asks.

"Affirmative," I answer. Parker is a co-worker of mine; he broke three ribs and took a bullet in the shoulder on his last assignment, and is currently taking some "time-off" from assissination, while also technically working. He made himself the subject's chaffeur for the day for my assignment.

I take off my sunglasses. "Shall we continue to Southampton?."

Parker stomps on the gas.

* * *

Richard is the most aggressive member of our crew. A native of Africa, he was kidnapped as a child from his village thirteen years ago by an African rebel and trained at the tender age of nine to be a first-class soldier. Archer saved him from that particular line of work, but Richard's soldier mentality stayed. Standing at over six-and-a-half feet, with broad shoulders and pitch-black skin, he's one of the most intimidating men I've ever seen, let alone met. He's equipped with razor-sharp throwing knives and an even sharper mind. Despite his threatening aesthetics, he is very gentle.

"Ms. Ride," he says, bowing his head a fraction. I take it as a great honor to even be acknowledged by this man. I return the gesture. "I placed the cherry in his martini," I say, in excellent code. "He was drunk the entire meal. I suspect his hangover will be awful."

Richard smiles slightly. "You must be proud of your efforts."

"Very."

He follows me outside to the Rolls-Royce, where Parker is waiting to drive us to Archer's jet, where we'll then proceed to Tuscany, Richard explains. "We'll also be given a new assignment."

"We?" I inquire. I've never heard of a time when the crew worked together. This method has been avoided to forestall any conflict amongst the members.

Richard purses his lips in thought. "I suspect Archer has something quite unusual in store for us."

I think back to my previous jobs. "'Unusual'? What does _that _mean?"


	3. Chapter 3

**D/C: By now, you may have realized that the idea of MR is not mine, but in fact belongs to a dude who has the same intitials as my dad. **

**Some of the information in this chapter is probably false: I didn't research African Diamond Smuggling, or anything. If this bothers you especially, please don't complain; look it up yourself and enlighten me. Otherwise, please don't mention it.**

* * *

_Even if I didn't have wings, I think Archer would've selected me anyway. At fifteen I could take down a man twice my size. I was a good shot, too, and with practice, it was virtually impossible for me to ever miss a target. Despite my poor education, or lack thereof, Archer believed I'd be able to learn the appropriate subject matter quickly and effortlessly. The day we flew to the ranch in Tuscany was when I said good-bye to my old self, and welcomed the new one with open arms._

_As for why I left the "Flock" in the first place, I don't really remember. It had something to with a specific member, a name too painful to speak._

* * *

The moment Richard, Parker, and I arrive in Tuscany, I spread my wings and go for a small fly-around. Tuscany, I'm convinced, is the most beautiful place on earth. The air constantly has a fresh, even organic feel to it. The plants seem to be constantly in bloom, and the weather varies between cool and warm.

After a few hours, I turn around and head back to the ranch. When I get there, I'm greeted by five other members of the crew: Balbir, Zhanna, Gilda, Alvise, and Alexa. Alexa and I are the only two Americans.

"Hello, Max," Balbir says congenially, holding out his hand. He's Hindu, and while he personally isn't very attractive, his skin is a beautiful caramel color. "How was the flight?" His mouth quirks at the joke. My wings are no secret to my comrades.

"A little tiring," I answer. "The service was so bad it was almost like there _were _no stewards."

He smiles. I look to the other four people. Zhanna is Russian, and to date one of the most striking women I've ever seen. Reddish-brown hair, ivory skin, sculpted lips, long, sweeping eyelashes, and dark blue eyes. She has a wonderful Russian accent that only complements her melodious voice. In a poverty-stricken section of Moscow, her family made her work as a whore from _twelve _tosixteen, until Archer, on a chance encounter (and no, he did not hire her for her services), discovered her strength and intellect.

Gilda, from Germany, is another story. She lived a relatively normal life in Soest, but quickly found it boring. She's rather plain, with a pasty face and long nose, dirty blonde hair, brown eyes. But she stands with such poise and confidence, and is very graceful, that simply seeing her move is a privelege. She's an accomplished athlete, and very astute. She, Zhanna, Alexa, and I are the only four female crew members.

Venice-born Alvise was already working by the time he was ten. His entire family has been involved in crime, and his father made him indiscreetly slip poison into meals, scorpions into beds; Alvise resented his father for forcing him into these tasks; at fifteen he turned on his father and put _canterella_ into his glass of Champagne. His father discovered the poison, and banned the boy from the family. Alvise is the only one of us who started killing for a living when he was younger than eighteen. I've never trusted him, nor ever will. Killing so young, I think, has...changed him.

Alexa is black, born into an exorbitantly wealthy family in L.A. After puberty, she began to hate her lifestyle: always having to act a certain way at gatherings, for one. She especially hated her snobby family and friends. So she ran away. She refrained from telling us the rest of her story.

Archer sits us around the mahagony table in the dining room, where we are soon joined by four more people: Nicolai, another German; Carter (British, like Archer); John (Irish: I love hearing him speak), and Li, from China. Richard, the last person, comes in a few minutes later. All eleven of us are now here. Archer nods pleasantly at the turnout.

Before his presentation, we eat. From this business, Archer is well-off; we are, after all, _paid_ to kill. Legions of staff come out with venison, salads, soups, desserts, drinks. After about an hour of eating and bantering, the dishes are cleared, the staff are dismissed, and Logan begins. An overhead screen rolls down from the wall in the front of the room. A picture of "Uncle" Thompson appears.

"Here," Archer begins, pointing to it, "is Maximum's latest assignment. He was terminated two days ago, in London. The blame has since fallen on his associate, who, in fact, has a police record of embezzlement and assault, and that turned out quite conveniently for Max, I must say."

Some of us chuckle.

"Thompson worked in the diamond trade in Africa. This, as you may know, employs the labor of children, as young as seven. They are literally worked to death, which is somewhat of a blessing for them, for they're controlled by overseers, men who maltreat and abuse them into drilling for the diamonds in places like riverbeds.

"Alexa and Richard, since they're the only two black members of our group, will be under the guise of a newly engaged couple from Johannesburg. The other ten of you will split into duos, each taking the five diamond regions of South Africa. Alexa and Richard will show up at each region under different circumstances, to avoid suspicion. When you see them, that will be your signal to kill the leader of your respective regions."

There are misgivings about this plan almost immediately. Li, ever the thinker, speaks up. "Excuse me, but what's to keep the head from re-hiring the leaders? If this corporation's as big as you say, then won't it be just as easy to replace lost members?"

"That," Archer explains patiently, "can be taken care of, for there is one exceptionally young man we can kill off. His death will prevent _that _from happening."

The image on the screen changed, and my breath caught. There, projected across the wall, was Fang.


	4. Chapter 4

_It was soon after we'd returned from Antarctica, I think. Yes, I remember because Angel's arm was still broken. I was having a horrible day. I'd woken up and hit my head on the corner of my bedside table. Mom--No, Dr. Martinez, had gone to work early, and I found Gazzy finishing off the last of the pancakes. I'd blown up at him. I don't know what came over me. God, he was just a little kid..._

_After that, I flew. It always made me feel better. But then something strange happened._

* * *

I swear Archer looks right at me while he explains Fang's current position. "This man--actually, I should probably say _boy_, as he's only eighteen--is, in fact, Africa's most feared and notorious gangster."

This has to be a joke. Fang? A gangster? The one I remember was dark and moody, but not to that kind of an extreme. He _liked _assisting others, and lessening their pain.

"What?" Alvise says. "Eighteen?"

Archer nods solemnly. "But he made his place in the gang society at fifteen."

Our snorts of disbelief only encourage Archer. "It's true. He killed a man named Bez Heram, who at the time was practically the Godfather of Africa's gangs."

"At fifteen?" John clarifies.

"Yes," Archer says. "I believe Heram's men anointed Fang in his place."

"Fang?" Zhanna chuckles. "What kind of a name is..."

Archer interrupts her. "I believe Maximum can answer that question." Immediately, all eyes turn to me.

I manage an "Ahem," and quickly say, "That belief is false."

"Come, Maximum," says Archer.

I know I can't lie. "Fang used to be in my 'Flock.' He is an Avian hybrid as well."

"So..he has wings?" Gilda says. "Like yourself, am I correct?"

"Yes," I say, angrily looking at Archer. He pretends not to notice.

"How else is this 'Fang' character like you?" Li inquires. The urge to hit Archer right now is a hard one to resist. Most of the time I can get people's attention diverted from my wings, but I hate the rare occasions when that seems to be the only subject they care about.

"Well." I look around, embarrassed. "He's unnaturally tall, like me, but, ah, he doesn't weigh much; his bones are hollow to improve..."

"Spare us the anatomy lesson," Alexa demands suddenly. "How hard would he be to take down?"

This is the one question I've been trying to avoid. "He's fast, and physically fit," I say after a moment. "He has good reflexes. He's..." I sift through my memory. The only things I can find there are too personal to divulge. There's really nothing left to tell them. "He's good at staying alive," I decide to say in conclusion.

"No one's that accomplished at survival when they're at the business end of a gun," Alvise mutters. Is that envy in his eyes?

"Regardless." Archer brings the table's attention back to himself. "Fang is hired by the diamond heads to bring in new people, new officials. They trust him wholeheartedly."

"What kind of men does he bring them?" Carter asks.

"Criminals, mainly." Archer pauses briefy to sip from a glass of water. "Men who are feared, men who have committed numerous crimes, but men who are too sly to be arrested."

"So," Nicolai says, "we kill this boy, and then what? They hire someone new to take his place!"

"No." We all turn to Richard, who has just spoken. "The significance of killing Fang is that he's not so easy to replace. This will leave the diamond operation vulnerable." Once again, the thought of Fang dying leaves my heart skipping a bit. I haven't seen him for over four years, and clearly he's changed, but still.

"Then," Richard says, "after his death, we kill of the region's leaders. This way, not only will they be lacking enforcement, but also the ability to acquire reliable people."

Archer claps his hands. "Will _I_ ever have the oppurtunity to amaze you?" he asks jokingly. "Richard has, as you say, hit the nail on the head. But the hardest part of this entire assignment will be cornering Fang. He's very slippery. You're dismissed; while you're at your leisure, think and plan, ladies and gentlemen." As he gives this spiel, he catches my eye. I know from the look he gives me that he wants me to stay.

When everyone has filed out of the room, Archer takes a seat across from me. "You know what I"m thinking."

"No, sir," I say.

He sighs. "Well, I know for a fact that there was a deeper relationship between the two of you then there was within the rest of your family."

"Yes, there _was_. And?"

"Fang is seen by his insubordinates as someone who has no emotions," Archer says. "No feelings." I immediately know where this is going, and the delicate food I've recently consumed somersaults.

"Seeing you will lower his defenses," Archer continues. "Mental and physical."

"Archer..." I warn, "I can't do that."

"Why not?" he questions. "When I first met you you told me that your hate for the flock ran deep. Why wouldn't you want retaliation on the people who caused you the most pain?"

How should I answer that? "Retaliation isn't the only answer" seems noble, but self-contradictory, too (I am an assassin, after all). Agreeing with him would put me in a position I have no interest whatsoever being in.

As if reading my thoughts, Archer gets up from his chair and says, "You being there would simply make it easier, but I'm sure Alvise can do the job as well."

"Alvise?" I inquire sharply, scattered thoughts organizing themselves.

"Yes. He has a good eye; he'd be able to kill Fang without getting involved. He can take the new assault rifle. It has a range of--"

Archer's plan has worked. I know it's what he wants me to do, but I fall for it completely. It's just the thought of Fang dying such a meaningless death, one of the many gangsters shot down, is disheartening. Archer's won.

"What would you like me to do?" I ask wearily.

He smiles.

* * *

**I'm kind of envisioning a Mr. and Mrs. Smith-type thing re: Fang and Max. Yes? No? **


	5. Chapter 5

_I lied. There _was _something else that had caused me to yell at Gazzy. Something someone said to me, I can't quite remember._

_What I do remember is being accosted by Erasers during my flight._

* * *

Defeat is a hard feeling to eradicate. As I walk out of the dining room I can sense it lingering in my stomach, my throat, my knees, shoulders. It makes me feel tired. Tired, and powerless. The combination of these two fills me with fury.

I see the rest of the crew lounging in the enormous living room, a fire blazing despite the warmth of the night. Zhanna and Richard are sitting on a leather sofa close together, while Balbir, Li, and John are playing a game of cards. Nicolai and Carter are having a heated debate over the effectiveness of the .22 versus the .45 caliber (personally, I think the former), while Gilda is stretching next to the fire, nearly drowning in her own sweat. I walk past them all.

Upstairs is another lounge room, with a large balcony. I stand here and watch the night. Tuscany is exceptionally beautiful, like I mentioned before, but there's something about its nights that is especially alluring. I'm soon caught up in the myriad of stars that dot the skies.

A sound behind me makes my feathers stand on end. I spin around, to find Alvise leaning against the door, staring at me. "I hear you were reassigned to _my _case," he says, not at all miffed.

"News _does _travel quickly these days," I reply steadily, every instict I have begging to wipe the smug smile off his face. I try to brush past him, but he suddenly grabs my elbow.

When I first joined the crew those four years ago (I was almost fifteen, Alvise was seventeen) it was clear from the start that Alvise liked me. But because his childhood had been particularly violent, his puppy-love quickly turned into a possessive obsession (he once took a swing at John for patting me on the shoulder). The only reason I've been able to tolerate it at all is the fact that the crew members only come together sporadically. As his grips tightens, I realize that these next few weeks are going to be trouble.

"Get off me," I say, deadly calm.

Ignoring me, he answers, "I'm going to make it a priority of mine to watch this... 'Fang' suffer." He tightens his grip. I decide to give my muscles the exercise they need.

Bringing my foot down onto his expensive Italian number (_now _I realize the point of stilettos), I grab one of his fingers and jerk it upward. He pulls his injured hand away, hissing in pain. "I dare you to pull a trigger now!" I snarl, shoving him aside. He crashes precariously into the edge of the balcony. Despite how my enraged mood has given me new strength and energy, Alvise, I know, is still much stronger than I am. I snap open my wings and fly off the balcony.

Once I'm safely tucked into a tree a few miles away, I vent. I begin to madly punch the trunk. My knuckles tear open, but I'm so angry I can barely feel the pain. Afterward, exhausted, I slump against the trunk, hanging my leg over the branch I'm sitting on. Tonight's decision to kill Fang comes rushing back to me, and a strange feeling churns my stomach. The feeling itself is hate, and it shouldn't be strange, but the fact that I'm connecting it with Fang is alien to me. Then I remember the last thing he said to me, before I left.

* * *

_"You're not her mom, Max! I don't know why she treated you that way all this time, but it's true! It's not your decision whether she goes or not!"_

* * *

Every misgiving I have about killing Fang leaves my conscience. I'm angry all over again, but my knuckles have already had enough damage inflicted. Instead, I take off my stilettos and drive the sharp heels into the tree.

* * *

When I return, I find Archer and Alvise in the kitchen. I cautiously enter the room.

Alvise sees me. "You!" he spits, standing up so abruptly his chair capsizes. "This is all _your_..."

Archer grabs his wrist to shut him up. "Sit down, Alvise." He obliges, picking his chair back up, but glaring at me. I return it, matching it in its steel.

As I get myself a glass of water, Alvise jerks in his chair. "Shit, man! Don't do that!" Archer is examining his finger; the one I tried to break. I think I'm successful when I see that it's turned an ugly shade of purple and has swollen to the point of looking more like a yam that an index finger. Archer is shaking his head. "It's definitely broken," he confirms, handing his patient a pack of ice. "This should bring down the swelling. Maximum, get me a splint and bandage from our medical cupboard, please."

"You're kidding," I say, heading into the lounge room with my water. Archer frowns and retrieves the equipment himself. I listen at the doorway while he dresses the wound.

"That _bitch_," Alvise snarls.

"Now, now."

"Well, she is! All I did was..."

"Alvise, stop being childish. I know something more transpired. Maximum is not volatile; it would be rather out of character for her to break your finger just for being the recipient of a kiss good night, don't you think?"

"She's a crazy, that one," Alvise mutters. "Why are you on her side?"

After a minute or two of silence, I hear the sound of a chair being pushed back. "Go to bed, Alvise," Archer says. "And, for your sake, leave Maximum alone for the rest of your time together."

"What! For _my _sake? If I ever get my hands on her..."

"...You will be annihilated before your grip would tighten," Archer says, matter-of-factly.

* * *

**Sorry it took so long to update! I've got tons on my plate right now: riding, family, and, of course, homework. But you guys know I love you, right?**


	6. Chapter 6

_The hurricane in Florida caused a lot of damage. Reporters and other media came rushing in as soon as the wind died down. Fortunately, Dr. Martinez got there first. She'd been accompanied by a helicopter, two government officials, and, of course, Jeb. But, instead of taking us back to Arizona, we were brought to Langley, Virginia--or, the hometown of a certain Central Intelligence Angency._

_Also where there were six field positions waiting to be occupied._

* * *

The next morning, I roll off of my silk duvet, step onto the plush floor of my spacious bedroom, and head into the adjoining bathroom. The marble floors are cold, and the sensation makes me a little more alert. I turn on the warm water, strip off my nightwear, and step in. My wavy hair immediately straightens from the wet, and my wings feel a little heavier. As I rub some soap over my legs I see the rather large accumulation of scars and feel a small satisfaction at my battle wounds.

On my knee, there's a small dash of elevated tissue, the result of a knife-to-knife with a Dominican drug lord (unfortunately, I lost it. More scars on that later). Running up the right calf are numerous scars, from a particularly vicious group of guard dogs (I was trying to scale a fence when they began to jump up and bite into my lower legs. Pedigree Rottweillers, I was told later. Worth thousands. I returned to the scene, sedated every last one of them and sold them. The funds went toward a new haircut, and some shoes from the local designer Salvatore Ferragamo. Stupid mutts had the last laugh, though. One of them bit into my hand as I led him to his new owner. I've got a perfect semi-circle on the side of my palm now.)

I run my hands over my back, feeling the small depressions left behind from being jammed into an iron grate. My largest scar runs from my left shoulder to my right hip, from the battle with the Dominican. It's hardly very deep. I can barely see it now. From a fight with Russian gangsters is just a small nick on my neck, but that's as far up as they go.

When I'm done bathing, I dress and head downstairs for breakfast. Carter is our main chef, and the smell of eggs makes my stomach yearn. John is munching away, talking to Nicholai about something-or-other. They nod in my direction as I heap a mountain of food onto my plate, but Li stares at the enormous amount of food intently. It gets annoying after a few seconds.

"May I help you?" I ask sharply.

He looks up. "I'm sorry, but could you explain again why you eat so much?"

I sigh, not wanting to delve into this topic again. "I have six limbs, instead of four. My body needs the extra calories to compensate and maintain a healthy weight."

"Doesn't it have something to do with your height, a well?" Nicholai chews his eggs thoughtfully.

"I guess," I say. "But..." (changing the subject), "where is everybody?"

Carter sits down next to me, some fruit and granola with yogurt on his plate. "Zhanna and Richard went into town for the day. Gilda is on a run, Alexa's asleep, Archer is in his office, and Alvise is teaching himself how to shoot with his left hand."

I see John staring pointedley at me as he says, "Yes, I heard about that...something about slamming his finger in the door."

"Of course," I say, looking down at my hands to supress a grin.

* * *

I spend most of the morning training: throwing knives, target practice, spitting darts. At one fifteen, I eat a few slices of delicious Tuscan pizza, then pay a visit to Archer, who is still working away in his office.

"Hello, Maximum," he says, looking up. "How is your day going so far?"

"Not too badly. When do we leave for the assignment?"

"Three days. Your prep will be tonight, and I expect all of you to spend the next seventy-odd hours training." He opens a drawer in his antique maple wood desk and takes out a needle and some glass containers. He must see the expression on my face, because he puts his hand over mine reassuringly. "I'm sorry, Maximum, but your trip to Africa will leave you at risk for malaria."

My fear of everything medical still lurks in the back of my mind, a bad memory refusing to be forgotten. _Also your bonding time with Fa--_, my conscience begins to supply before I silence it. The blood rushes from my face as Archer uncaps the needle and fills it with 8 cc of a malaria vaccination. I draw back slightly. "Please, Maximum. The last way you to deserve to die is from an insect smaller than your fingernail."

He has a point. Reluctantly, I pull up my sleeve to reveal my upper arm. As the needle comes toward me I tense. Archer stops. "It will hurt a lot more if the muscle is clenched. Relax it."

A small jab later, Archer caps the needle and throws it into the garbage. My heart's beating faster than the norm, but the nausea has passed. Archer gives me a smile, his once-handsome--but now sun-browned and grizzled--face crinkling. "Is there anything else?"

"No," I answer. "I'm just...um...feeling a little..."

"Nervous? Don't worry, it will pass. It always does. Remember your first assignment?"

I smile a little. I was only fifteen, and we were trying to kill--oddly enough--a veteranarian, who used her practice as a cover-up operation to smuggle rare animals into the country. I remember I was so nervous, that, when I pulled the trigger from the balcony opposite hers, my hands were shaking so badly that--even after months of practice--I missed, and she fled out the door. Fortunately, we had a back-up plan: seventeen year old Gilda intercepted her as she was traveling down the elevator.

"Thank god for Gilda," I say. Archer tells me he'll see me at dinner tonight, and I walk out of his office. But as I descend the stairs I realize that it wasn't--isn't--anxiety that I'm feeling.

It's guilt.

* * *

**Sorry it took so long! I've got school, school, school, track, riding, and school. And some more school. And meals.**

**Also, I apologize if the fic is getting boring; this is just building some suspense. By next chapter, I'll try to have Max in Africa, depending, of course, on the flight arrangments.**

**Hasta la pasta.**


	7. Chapter 7

_"What?!" I gave the Head Field Officer the most appalled look I could manage. He writhed, but just this once I didn't derive the usual pleasure from it._

_"It's quite simple, Maximum," the HFO's boss, CIA's headman, said. "You and your friends have astounding physical and mental abilities. Do you have any idea what kind of an advantage you could be to this organization?"_

_"I'm sorry. I thought you were trying to protect us. Now I see that we're just expendable to you as we were to School." I stood up. Dr. Martinez gave me a look of approval and followed suit. First Fang, then the rest of my flock, stood. To my horror, I realized Nudge was still seated._

_"What kind of positions?" she asked quietly._

* * *

We still have one more day of R&R in Tuscany before our assignment. Today, however, does not encompass R&R-ing.

Today's a training day.

I pull my hair back into a low bun and don my exercise gear: a simple black tank top, and shorts made out of my least favorite material (spandex). Zhanna has woven her hair into an intricate braid, while Alexa has left her curly, shiny-black hair to do as it pleases. This same hair is increasing in volume at an alarming rate, which gives her a comically intimidating air as she rushes at me in the grappling ring.

"Fend her off, Max!" Gilda encourages from the sidelines. I threaten Alexa with a punch to her right side; she flinches, and I use the distraction to headbutt her abdomen. She's down, but not for long. Swinging her legs out, she sweeps them under me, and I topple like a sack of bricks. I push myself up before Alexa can even blink, grab the undersides of her knees, and, straining, flip her backwards. For a split second, she's perpendicular to the ground, before crashing back down on her stomach.

"Ugh!" she howls at the impact. She's breathing heavily, partly from the workout, but mostly, I can tell, from the adrenaline. She gives me the evil eye. "You'll pay for that, Maxie."

"Oh yeah?" I challenge. She springs up, like a cat, circling, stalking me. I never let my eyes off her.

"Be quick, Alexa!" Zhanna yells. "Stun her reflexes!"

Alexa runs at me again. I immediately know what she's going to do, and, at the last second, crouch down so she can roll harmlessly off my back, instead of executing the actual attack (the way her elbow was positioned revealed that she was planning on ramming it into my ribcage).

But I realize I've been fooled when, the moment she slides along my back, Alexa grabs onto my thighs. I fall heavily, this time not being able to recover. Alexa climbs on top of my chest. "Surrender?" she asks, breathing hard.

"For now," I reply. "Now get the hell off me." She chuckles in self-satisfaction as I bend over, trying to catch my breath. I want to wipe that smirk on her face, but I think Richard, for the time spent in Africa, would prefer a wife _with _teeth.

Zhanna and Gilda go next. Gilda wins, hands down, but the struggle to catch and bring down Zhanna's lithe, sinuous body leaves her breathing harder than usual. Zhanna nurses her elbow as she and and her friend tease each other about their "many" flaws.

The training continues well into the afternoon. By three, I'm drenched in sweat, and the gun in my hand is constantly slipping out of position. John passes me some tips, but my bullets don't even come close to the bullseye. At the target next to mine, Nicholai has burnt a perfect hole in the exact center of his target numerous times, alternating guns after each shot.

"Cuh-_rap_," I hiss to myself, missing again. Frustrated, I set the gun onto the worktable and head to the sparring arena. I grab a wooden, varnished stick, about two feet in length, and practice alone, maneuvering around and whacking at my invisible opponent.

"I think the point of the exercise is to fight _someone_," a voice says behind me. I whirl around, coming face-to-chest with Richard. He's holding a stick of his own, and has crouched down into battle stance.

"I have a higher chance of winning this way," I say, mimicking his pose. Richard bats at my shoulder; I quickly duck down and aim one at his knee. He jumps before it can land. I straighten up, pummeling viciously around his head. He dodges each one.

We fight for a long time. My knees begin to shake from the exertion, and the stick feels like lead in my hands. Richard has a small collition of sweat on his brow, but is just as powerful as ever. Finally, he knocks the stick out of my hands and forces me up against the side of the ring.

"Pow," he says, holding the stick like a gun and aiming it at my head. "You're dead."

"I think your barrel's empty," I grunt, pushing it away and climbing out of the arena.

* * *

That night at dinner, Archer tells us he's book the services of a private jet that will take us to Africa. He turns to Li. "Do you remember the head of the toy company that used toxic chemicals in the materials of their toys? Well, the man who hired you to annihilate the head has a very nice plane. We'll be leaving _this house _at _six forty-five tomorrow morning!_ If you're not ready, your time in Africa will be miserable."

I made that mistake once. I was so tired I didn't pack for an assignment taking place in Turkey. I assumed Archer would just leave me behind, but instead I had to spend a week in a Turkish hovel with only one set of clothes, no tooth or hairbrush.

"Alvise slammed his finger in the door upstairs last night," Archer continues, on a new note. Alvise glares hard at me, and I hear some suppressed sniggering around the table. "However, this is good news. Alvise can assisst me in the technical work instead."

"But if we're to be split into duos," Balbir asks, "won't that leave one of us on his..." he catches Gilda's eye, "er, or her, own?"

Archer waves his hand in the air, the question making him impatient. "Maximum has been...reassigned. Alexa and Richard will cover the murder at the last diamond region. However, I'm sure the diamond heads will get suspicious of Alexa and Richard after the overseers at the first two diamond regions are murdered...which is why Nicholai and I have designed a pattern.

Zhanna and John will man the first diamond region. When Alexa and Richard arrive, you'll wait one day before killing. Nicholai and Balbir shall have the second region, and they'll wait three days. Gilda and Li will have the third, but they won't kill after five days. They'll kill after two. The pattern goes one, three, two, four. However, when Alexa and Richard come to the fifth region, they'll kill the overseers on the spot."

"What shall we do in between arriving at the regions?" Richard says.

"Follow the same pattern," Archer explains. "After showing up at Diamond Region number One, wait one day before arriving at number Two. Then, wait three days, then two days, then four. Understand?"

We nod complacently.

"Very well." Archer rubs his hands together gleefully, like a small child receiving a present. "Now, who's hungry?"

**Thank you, America! I have updated! I won't make you wait that long next time, I promise. School's out this week, and I couldn't be more relieved. **

**But, with good news must come bad news...my horse is lame! Does that suck or what? I was often too busy to ride him when school was in session, and now that it's almost out, and I've got free time on my hands--blah. It's frustrating!**


	8. Chapter 8

_"Well, why not?" Nudge demanded at Dr. Martinez's that night. We were sitting on the couch, discussing that day's events. Everyone had been extremely offended by the CIA's offer. Almost everyone, anyway._

_Before I could respond, she plowed in. "The pay's amazing, we get shelter, protection, food..."_

_"Nudge, it's out of the question! There is no way I'm letting you accept that offer. You thought fighting Erasers was bad? Going undercover is worse! God, just imagine what would happen if you were caught..."_

_She was trying to interject, but I cut her off. "You're not doing it," I said in conclusion. "It's dangerous. I don't care how much they pay."_

_Nudge gave me a look of fury and defiance, but stood up calmly and walked lightly down to her room. She was followed by the Gasman, Angel, and Iggy._

_"Jeez!" I said, speaking my thoughts aloud. "Nudge must be going nuts if she thinks I'd let her do that."_

_Fang turned his brown eyes toward me, and his reply knocked me off guard. "Well, why not?"_

* * *

The jet was very comfortable. The food served during the flight tasted delicious. Alcohol was served, but of course none of us had any. The owner of the jet even provided stewardesses who would've looked more appropriate in a Victoria's Secret catalog (this did not go unnoticed by a few certain males of the crew).

Hower, the minute I step onto the tarmac of the secluded runway in South Africa, I feel uncomfortable. Not just from the heat, either--although the hideously dry, sweltering weather does make me want to melt--but also from the adrenaline and danger of another assignment.

"Hello?!" Alexa snaps from behind me. I'd been standing in the doorway, blocking the exit.

"You know that patience is a virtue?" I snap back, in no mood to be harrassed. I grip my duffel bag and walk down the stairs, stepping onto the tarmac. Heat waves ascend from the surface of the asphalt, blurring my vision. Bored looking men, wearing pedestrian clothes but carrying deadly-looking assault rifles, patrol the area, swatting at their necks now and then.

Archer turns to Alexa and Richard. "Now, who are you?"

"I am Ray Browers, and this is my wife, Alexis," Richard recites. "We have recently been engaged, and I've come home my native Africa to acquire for her the perfect diamond...at all costs." His voice becomes dramatic, as if he's announcing the plot of a movie. I snort.

I stand with "Ray" and "Alexis" as the rest of the crew bundles into a Jeep. While I still have my qualms about Fang, for just a small microsecond I feel relieved that I don't have to sit on a lap to make up for the lack of seats.

Richard and Alexa go off on their own about an hour later, while I'm left sitting in the shade, sipping some strange-tasting drink that one of the patrol guards gave me. It's hot to the point of burning my tongue. Archer said someone would be meeting me here, a double agent spying on the diamond organization.

Sure enough, right as I'm about to board the jet back to Tuscany, another Jeep pulls up to the tarmac. The patrol guards tense, grabbing onto their weapons. One approaches the Jeep and begins jabbering in a foreign language. The driver says something back, and the two shake hands. I wonder at this strange comeraderie, but then realize that the shaking hands must've been an exchange of money. The feeling of discomfort gnaws away.

The Jeep pulls up to the tree I'm sitting under. A man climbs out. He is black, but his skin is tar-colored, not Richard's pleasant, dark-tinged shade. He has an unproportionally large nose and equally large lips, but with small, beady eyes. Instead of being muscular, he's beefy.

"You must be Maxee-moom," he says, extending a hand. I take it firmly, letting him know by my grip that I'm not one to be messed with.

"And you?" I ask.

He smiles. "Call me Nat-a-niel. My real name is too hard to pro-nonce." He grabs up my duffel bag and throws it into the back of the jeep. I tentatively climb into the passenger seat, resting my hand casually but meaningfully on the handle, just in case I have to jump out.

Nathaniel starts the car and we pull out of the runway. As we travel down a dusty road he launches into an explanation of how I shall commit my murder.

"Tomorrow night, a large gala will be thrown to celebrate the death of the man I hear you recently killed. His death means a promotion for some. Anyway, you will be disguised as one of the wait-ree-sis. When Fang sees you, we expect him to be surprised. We also expect him to request a private odd-yence with you. Normally, he'd be armed and alert, but we'll slip a drug into his meal to a-voyd this."

"Can't you just poison him?" I ask bluntly. It would save me the effort and the grief.

Nathaniel smiles and hits the gas.


	9. Chapter 9

_At first, I couldn't believe Fang wasn't against Nudge endangering herself. Then the disbelief gave way to anger._

_Words were exchanged. Ultimately, as Fang was walking out the door to my room, he turned to me, eyes cold. "You're not her mom, Max! I don't know why she treated you that way all this time, but it's true! It's not your decision whether she goes or not!"_

_I gaped at him. My eyes puckered, and, before Fang could see me cry, I shoved past him, ran to the front door, and flew away._

* * *

Nathaniel drives me past slipshod houses, starving and deprived inhabitants staring out the window, wandering livestock, and other poverty-stricken areas until we reach our destination. It's strange: one minute we were in the middle of an rural, impoverished country, the next, we're driving into an industrial, populated, and urban city.

We continue until we reach a large plaza. Nathaniel puts the car in park and comes around to open the door for me. I get there first and jump out. I'm tense; my muscles are clenched, and my fists curl and uncurl. I reach into the back of the Jeep for my bag, but Nathaniel stops me. "You won't be needing that," he says.

"What?"

"Clothes will be provided for you. If you bring your own things, the others will get suspicious." He walks away, toward the hotel-like building that's closed around three sides of the plaza. I follow him, practically jogging to keep up.

"Others?"

"You'll be rooming with the other waitresses. They...they're not exactly here by choice." We walk down a fancy, tiled hallway, up a long, winding staircase, and finally stop at a battered--but large--looking door. Nathaniel produces a key, but before he opens the door, he turns to me, voice lowered. "I'll be frank. The people in this room have all been taken illegally."

"Kidnapped."

"Eh...yes. The owners of this hotel like having diversity in their staff members. The assumption will be that you've been kidnapped as well. Act the part." Nathaniel turns the key in the lock, and, suddenly, shoves me in, slamming the door behind me.

I stumble slightly, and curse him under my breath. Then I observe my surroundings, inhaling sharply. I'm being scrutinized by a small group of women, all about my age. I notice they're all of different races. One is black, from Africa, no doubt; another is Asian. One is white, but by her plump lips, slightly pinched nose and large eyes, I guess she's Romanian. Another is extremely tan, with bleached blonde hair. One is distinctly Indian, and there are a few others who I can't identify. I don't try to talk to them; they looked disturbed, tired, and extremely scared. So I curl into a corner.

The night before we'd left for Africa, I didn't sleep at all. Instead, I flew around Tuscany, stretching out my wings and thinking about what I was actually going to do. That, and the jetlag, suddenly weigh down on me like heavy burdens. Before I can resist, my eyes close, and I fall asleep.

* * *

The next evening, I'm standing in a darkly-lit hallway, barely wide enough for my shoulders. All nine of us have been squeezed in here. In front of us is a door, brightly-lit from behind, where I can hear the sounds of festivities. Each of us is carrying a tray of food. Behind us is the kitchen, which the hallway connects to the dining area.

That afternoon, we were ordered to change into a different set of clothes: a skirt, a white blouse, and sheer skin-colored stockings. My skirt is ridiculously, uncomfortably small; it digs into my hips, and barely covers what it's supposed to. As for the blouse, it is also much too tight, and far too low for my comfort. We were also given high-heeled shoes (at least two sizes too small for me--my feet are throbbing).

As if it couldn't get any worse, we were forced to sit still while make-up was applied: thick black eye-liner, ruby-red lipstick, blush. Apparently, the theme of this dinner is far from classy.

The opening of the door calls me back to the present. Lights floods into the corridor, causing us to squint. We're ushered out into the large, grand dining room, where the guests applaud as we set down the food plates. While I'm bending to set down my tray (heaped with bowls of salad), I momentarily look up through my lashes at the set-up.

There are about six extroardinarily long tabes positioned parallel to each other, and perpindicular to the stage at the head of the room. Each table is flocked with people, dressed in fancy tuxedos and dresses. From what I can tell, the ends of each table are reserved for the more upstanding citizens of this society.

I hear a whimper. I look in the direction, and see a man standing behind the Indian waitress, whispering something into her ear. From the look on his face, I can tell it's nothing appropriate. As a final insult to injury, he gently runs his finger along her neck, before heading back to his table.

Note to self: avoid any and all men, except for the subject.

I head to the next table to set down more salad. I'm at my third table when I hear a strangled noise. I turn to the noise, and suddenly, everything stops. The buzz of conversations fade out; hand motions and laughing mouths pause in mid-action; my pulse thuds in my ears. My gaze is locked onto one person, sitting at the head of the table.

Fang.

My mind goes blank, the image of his face taking up all the room.

I'm pulled out of my thoughts when I feel a hand squeeze my backside. I don't remember anything (briefly wondering why I'm wearing clothes that don't fit), so the response is purely visceral. I spin around and punch the offender in the nose.

Only when all party-goers have settled into a shocked silence, and the pervert has released an angry bellow, is when I recall.

* * *

**And cut.**

**I'm going to take the space to write a small tribute to BlueyGooz. He/she has submitted a review to every single chapter I've turned out. Applause please!**

**And to the my other faithful reviewers, including but not limited to: penz rite stuf, ****PoLkAdOtFeAtHeRs****, Flyer without Wings, Amythest-Violet, and Laura.S-X:** **you guys are great! Thanks.**

**Who wants their name in a chapter?**


	10. Chapter 10

_I flew to a large tree a few miles from Dr. Martinez's. I sat on the highest branch, staring ahead in hurt and shock, unblinking. How could Fang say such a thing? Did the last fourteen years not count in his mind?_

_I felt a tap on my shoulder. Turning my head, I stared straight into the beady eyes of an Eraser._

_"Hello, Max," it snarled. Before I could react, he balled up his fist and sent it straight into my face._

* * *

Everything is quiet. Too quiet.

Mr. Perv is kneeling on the ground, holding his hands to the bloody, swollen shape that was formerly known as his nose. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Fang stand quickly up in his chair, but I can't see his expression.

"What is the meaning of this?" A woman wearing too much make-up comes stomping into the picture. I recognize her as the person who forced me to change clothes. That, and the fact that she appears to be siding with El Pervo, make me dislike her immensely.

The man stands up. He has a double chin, and a fleshy, pink face. "Your waitress hit me," he spits, getting saliva all over his bushy moustache. I curl my lip at him, before realizing that I'm blowing my cover in a conspicuous, violent way. I put on the most innocent face I can and cast my eyes downward, wishing all the while that I could follow-up the initial hit with a knee to the groin.

The woman grabs my upper arm in a vice grip. "I am so sorry, Mr. Sanders," she gushes, all the while driving her sharp nails into my skin. I wince. Pain seems to be coming from all directions: the too-tight shoes, the death-hold the skirt seems to be inflicting upon my hips, and the fact that a large segment of my past is standing just a few feet away.

Mr. Sanders tells the woman exactly what he thinks of her apology, causing a few of the guests to murmur in amusement. She just smiles at him and pulls me a bit closer. "Wait in the kitchen. Don't even think of leaving." Then she shoves me in the general direction.

I would've caught myself if I'd been wearing decently-sized shoes, but just as I try to stabilize myself, the side of the shoe chafes the blister that's appeared on my foot. I've experienced pain in the highest degree--stab wounds, dog bites, et cetera, but nothing prepares me for the hideous sensation of a popping blister. My feet slide out from under me. I'm about to land hardly on my knees when a hand grips my elbow. I look up.

His appearance is almost exactly the way I remember it: olive-tinged skin, dark hair that he has slicked back, brown, but now icy, eyes. His face is a little longer, his cheekbones more prominent, and I see a crescent-shaped scar starting at his ear and extending along his jaw, to his chin.

"Clumsy fool," the woman hisses. "Hurry up."

I jerk awkwardly away from Fang and rush to the kitchen. As I'm leaving I hear him ask the woman, facetiously but purposefully, "Where are you getting your waitresses, Ms. Merrill?"

"Clearly at the wrong places," the woman says, expertly dodging the question. "Now if you'll excuse me, I should get Sanders some ice."

Conversations resume as I squeeze into the corridor. I lean against the uncomfortably cool and damp brick wall and curse myself. Why did I let Fang throw me off? I'm here to kill him, and yet I'm acting like some kind of lovesick baboon. Since when do I react to blisters? Seriously.

My mind clears in indignation when, after about a half-hour of cursing myself, Ms. Merrill enters the hallway. I would normally stare her down untiil she cried, but since I'm no longer Me, I can't. I look at the ground, trying to look scared and under-confident.

I fail miserably. This does not, unfortunately, escape her attention.

"I'd have lessened your punishment if you'd at least shown the slightest trace of remorse," Ms. Merrill says. Her assistant, trailing closely behind her, procures a small leather bag, opens it, and gives the handful to her boss. I wonder why Ms. Merrill would need jewelry in this situation when I realize that she's slipping a heavy-looking brass ring on each finger.

_Brass knuckles! _I realize instantenously. I feel queesy. Archer once told me that opponents who use that particular method usually comprehend that they have no chance of winning otherwise.

"One punch is all, and you're lucky," Ms. Merrill says, looking up at me (I have at least a foot's advantage).

"Please don't," I plead, meaning every word. Merrill ignores me, tightening her knuckles against her palm_. She's going to do it_! I stiffen every part of my body, pressing my soft wings against my back for comfort. It does little good.

"Excuse me," a voice booms down the hallway. Ms. Merrill stops her fist in mid-air. "I'm sorry, Ms. Merrill," Fang says, striding up to us. "I'd like to handle this woman's punishment."

"Don't be ridiculous. She's my staffer, I'll take care of it."

"No, I want to. You'll have her back in the morning." He clamps his warm palm around my elbow, leaving no more room for discussion. He leads me out the corrider, across the dining hall, to the stairs, up to his room...

He quickly lets go of me and locks the door behind him. Then he turns around, looks at me, and blinks. "Max..." he says, eyes widening in shock. "How did you get here?"

I shrug, trying to look nonchalant, while actually experiencing a buzz from being LOCKED IN THE SAME ROOM AS THE TARGET. I look around at the well-furnished room. The walls are painted a deep red, and the furniture looks French, with plush cushions and carved legs and armrests. A beautiful, if gawdy, crystal chandelier hangs from the center of the room.

Fang sinks down onto a lounge, still staring at me as if I'm a ghost. "When you abandoned us..." he murmurs, running a finger along his scar.

I look at my feet, now swelling out of the too-small high heels. "I didn't have anywhere else to go," I say quietly, reciting the lie I've been practicing for the last few days.

"What did you do?"

"I've just been working in big cities, off and on." I run a hand along the wall of his hotel room. God, this is akward. "I met someone when I was working in Paris and he offered me a job here." I look up to meet his eyes, which still look bewildered. "I still have my wings," I add.

He sighs. "Me, too."

"I don't fly much, anymore, though," I supply after a minute of silence. I realize that he's gone from looking amazed to looking angry. "Fang?"

"When you left," he says, voice quaking, "everything fell apart."

He lets this sink in. I want to yell the truth to him, but that would only make it harder for me to do my job. "I couldn't take being a parent any longer," I respond quietly, walking over to him. What crock. It feels like we're acting out a scene in a Harlequin romance. The cheesy ones you see in the bookstore, with titles like _Seduction by Danger _or _One Sinful Night._

I pretend to itch my hip, but actually clutch the tiny, travel-size hypothermic needle that I hid in the spandex lining of my skirt. A graze with skin is all the liquid inside needs to do its job: disorient and knock-out. Under normal circumstances, I'm positive Fang would've seen right through the motion. But he's still sitting there, looking confused, angry, and nostalgic.

"I'm sorry, Fang."

I position the needle like a dagger and swipe at him. A thin, microscopic line appears on his forehead, immediately leaking blood. Fang gives me a surprised look, eyes glazing over. "Maaaax?" he drawls, beginning to weave unsteadily. "You'rrre not a waitrrrresss..." He slumps forward, unconscious.

I close my eyes, trying to mentally prepare myself. The next step will be much harder.

* * *

**Sorry it took so long to update! My horse has been lame, and also I was hit with a massive case of writer's block. But, happy to report that I'm cured! And thanks to all the the people who reviewed the last chapter. I got over thirty of 'em, a personal record breaker. You guys hold the story's fate in your hands.**


	11. Chapter 11

_To summarize one of the most agonizing nights of my life:_

_It was me against dozens of Erasers. I fought as hard as I could, but in the end I couldn't hold out. I was held down while the lead Eraser stuck a needle into my neck. I woke up in an unfamiliar lab._

_With one of the most annoying scientists _ever.

* * *

With Fang unconscious, I can kill him any way I want.

I could pinch his nose shut and hold his mouth closed.

I could smother him with one of his fancy pillows.

Hell, I could even stab him with one of my stupid, tiny shoes, or fasten my skirt around his neck.

But there are some questions I need him to answer first. So I decide to keep him alive until I get what I need. I'll have to restrain him, however--most likely, he won't be too happy about being tricked and drugged.

I drag him over to an incredibly expensive-looking chair, summon all of my strength, and pull him up onto the seat, into a sitting position. I steady him, then walk noisily over to the bed. If the people who saw us walk upstairs are assuming what I'm assuming they're assuming, then silence would probably arouse some suspicion. I stomp as hard as I can with my now-liberated feet, sinking ankle-deep into the carpet.

I grab the comforter in my hands and shred it into long strips of four. Then I stomp back over to Fang, tie his hands behind the chair and feet to the wooden legs, and wait.

Time goes by slowly. The skirt has prevented the blood from circulating around my legs. I search around the dresser for some of Fang's pants--pathetic, I know--but come up short. I consider simply taking it off, but quickly rule that out.

Finally, he begins to stir. He lifts his head, then moves his arm in a motion to touch his forehead. When his arm stays in place, he must realize why. He looks up, right into my eyes. His eyes cloud over with fury. "Max!" he growls, struggling in his bonds. He gives up after a minute, realizing that his efforts are futile. He glares at me. "I'll just have to call for help," he says, sneering at my mistake.

"No!" I bound over to his chair and place my hand firmly over his mouth. Even I know he hasn't changed enough to stoop to the Yelling-for-My-Henchmen level, but precautions are necessary. "If you make a sound that I think is too loud, you're dead." He raises an eyebrow in mock comprehension. I remove my hand. "I just came here to get some questions answered." And to kill him, but that detail can be overlooked.

"What do you want to know? You mean what happened after you abandoned us?" His eyes have hardened.

"I did _not_--" I catch myself. What does he care? He wouldn't believe me anyway. "Yes, that."

"Well, things weren't exactly the same without our dedicated leader Max," he says coldly. "We tried to work out our problems and couldn't. We stayed together long enough to find Angel's and the Gasman's parents--" I feel myself wince at the mention of their names "--and then disbanded."

I sigh shakily. I try to feel satisfied that I was held in such a high regard where the Flock was concerned, but can't summon the joy. "All of you?"

"No, Nudge and Iggy stayed together."

"But you came here."

"No. I explored Europe first. That didn't work. _Then_ I came here."

"Kind of random, isn't it?"

"Not to me," he says, curling his lip.

"And you killed...Bez Heram?" I ask. Fang was always a fighter, but I never thought he'd be at the gang-banger level.

"Yes. And know I'm here." He gives me an over-wide smile. "Does that satisfy your needs, Max?"

After a few minutes of mental preparation, I talk. "Fang." I can't believe I'm saying this. "I was sent here tonight to...kill you."

He snorts. "I know." Then he puts his hands in his lap.

I feel all the color leave my face. "What...how did..."

He holds up a knife. "It's always handy to have one of these up your sleeve." Then he throws it at me.

It misses by at least a foot and buries itself in the wall behind me. I'm totally unarmed, so I run after it and try to pull it out. It's stuck deep. Finally, after a few tortured seconds of straining, it gives. I turn around just in time to see Fang untying his right foot. He stands up, pulls another knife out of his pocket, and aims it at me. I lift my arm, ready to throw the knife into his chest. He does the same, but there's a hesitation in his eyes.

"Max, wait." He lowers his knife. "I want some questions answered, too."

I keep my knife exactly where it is. "You're not gonna try to get me off guard and kill me, are you?"

"I promise." He says it sincerely enough. I lower the knife, but stay alert.

He starts with the hardest one. "Why did you leave?"

_Because I was attacked and threatened. _"Uh, I guess I was just tired of being the leader."

"Max?"

"What?"

"Stop bullshitting, please." Fang frowns at me. "I can tell you're lying, okay?"

"Fine." I look him dead in the eye. "You want the truth?"

"The whole thing, and nothing but." Fang challenges me at my staring contest.

"Fine," I say again. "I left because I could not stand the thought of, for the rest of my life, being around _you_!"

Right as I finish, the door to his hotel room bursts open.

**The chapter is done!**


	12. Chapter 12

_"So, Maximum," Ter Borcht said, sticking a needle into my arm. "How iz ze flock?"_

_Pain shot through my body. I felt like barfing, but instead I answered, "N-none of y-your busi-n-ness."_

_Ter Borcht uncapped another needle and injected it into a new vein. The pain intensified. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to ignore it, but the tears came anyway. _

_"Max, you are to leave ze flock," Ter Borcht commanded. He held up another needle. "Or suffer."_

_"I'll take my chances," I said, spitting in his face. Ter Borcht just smile__d, before poking the third of a dozen needles into my skin._

Fang acts on reflex. Practically leaping across the room, he grabs my shoulders, pulls me into him, and, right as I'm expecting his blade to slice into my throat...

Pulls my head in and kisses me.

An electric shock passes through me. I tense up, trying to push him back, but he gives me a look that says, _Just go along with it_. I wonder what has prompted this sudden PDA when I hear, in an incredulous voice, "Max?" It's Nathaniel.

Fang casually breaks away from me, as if kissing the woman sent to kill him is a perfectly normal occurence for him. I turn around, trying to gather my bearings. "Um, hi," I say, mentally asking the blush to please leave my face.

"What are you doing here?" Fang asks, putting on an arrogant, annoyed demeanor. "Shouldn't you be working?" Nathaniel is undercover as the event's caterer.

"Well, we're short, um, a waitress." Nathaniel's narrowing his eyes at me, and I read his expression perfectly: _Traitor._

"Put on a skirt and your problem will be solved." Fang turns his back to Nathaniel, signifying the end of the discussion. "Now get back to work or your check will be waived."

Nathaniel closes the door, giving me one last "Busted!" expression before shutting it completely.

Fang looks at me. "You're blushing," he comments, keeping his voice neutral.

"Why did you kiss me?"

He waves the question away. "Not all of the people here are expecting to walk into a knife fight. I was just...playing the part."

No, no, this is not disappointment I'm feeling. I shrug nonchalantly. "Good idea, I guess." We're still standing at close proximity. I grab my knife and hold it at his chin. "But..."

Fang's jaw clenches, probably angry at himself for trusting me. "Max." He looks me in the eye. "Do you want to do this?"

I press the knife hard enough to knick his chin. A small trail of blood trickles down his jaw. He doesn't even wince. "I don't know, Fang," I say, angry at his patronizing. "Do you like hurting and killing innocent people everyday?"

"It's my job," he replies stiffly. A strange look comes over his eyes.

"That's your excuse?! You're _torturing _people. You're no better than...than a _White Coat_." I spit the last two words.

Fang glares at me. "What about you? You kill people for a living, too!"

"Only immoral people! You know, the ones who exploit and make money off of poor, desperate workers." Why am I defending myself? I _am _a killer. It doesn't matter who I'm exterminating. It makes no difference. With this realization, I lower my knife.

Fang pushes it away from him. "You should probably target your boss next, then," he grumbles, wiping his chin, but otherwise making no move to hurt me.

I sigh wearily. "Well, I've failed _this _assignment. You probably know what the consequences will be."

He sighs, too. "We'll figure something out. Just...go back down to work. Try to look...I don't know, scared." He smiles crookedly. "If that's even possible for _you_."

I frown at him, and slip my high-heels back on. My feet complain to no end, but I don't exactly have a choice. After the senario with Mr. Sexually Desperate, I'm going to have to try to blend in as much as possible.

"I'll meet you down there after the party," Fang says, opening the door for me. He opens his mouth, hesitates, then continues, "And, thanks, by the way."

"For what?" I furrow my brow, confused. "For betraying and tricking you? For trying to kill you?"

"For not." He smirks and closes the door, but I can tell something is on his mind.

As I walk down the staircase I run into the Asian waitress. I think her name is Xan, but I can't really remember. She gives me a spooked look as I greet her.

"What is it?" I ask. Something occurs to me. "Why are you...coming up here?"

Xan looks at her feet. I know she can speak English, because I overheard her "Excuse me"-ing one of the party guests, so there's no excuse for her silence. Finally she speaks. "I guess Ms. Merill isn't only paid for her catering."

Disgust pulses through me, like a heartbeat. Xan fiddles with the hem of her overlarge skirt--life's cruel, I know. "Is it terrible?" she asks, looking up at me. I wonder what the hell she's talking about when I realize what Fang and I were _supposed _to be doing.

"Oh! Um...I'm not going to lie, but yeah. It is. But if you think you have any physical advantage over him, then use it." I curse myself for saying that last bit. Xan is probably five feet, two inches, one hundred pounds at the most. Unless her "client" is an anorexic midget, odds are she won't have much of a chance. Xan must realize this, because her expression is one of defeat.

"Why didn't you just fly away?" she murmurs.

I take a step backward, shocked. "What did you say?"

She looks me in the eye. "I saw them."

For a moment I'm speechless. It's too late for me to play dumb, but owning up to her realization would be confessing. I decide to try threatening her, as reluctant as I am to do it.

I glare at her. "That kind of slander could get you hurt," I say coldly, brushing past her. She makes a sound in the back of her throat--whether it's from fear or disbelief, I'm not sure.

I descend the stairs, faster than before. I can't afford to waste any more time now.

Unfortunately, I run into Nathaniel.

He doesn't let me get a word in before pulling a gun from his belt and aiming it at me.

**Sorry for the ridiculously long wait. While I want you to understand that I, too, have I life, I still regret makin' y'all wait. Also, I'm leaving on vacation today for two weeks, and the day after I come back, I'll be off for another two weeks. No updates or new chapters for a while, and for that I'm really, really sorry.**


	13. Chapter 13

_After the twelfth needle, the pain was so bad all I could do was sob uncontrollably. Ter Borcht finally realized I wasn't giving in, so he left, but the horrid pain from the needles stayed. He disappeared for a while, until I saw his image flicker on on the T.V. that was built into the opposite wall. What I say made the throbbing pain from the needles seem like a caress._

_Tied into stretchers, in a similar fashion to my predicament, were the Flock. Angel and Gazzy were unconscious, with blood trickling out of their foreheads, but Iggy, Nudge, and Fang were awake. Nudge looked terrified; her brown eyes were fixated on the needle that was poised just above the pulsating vein on her neck. Iggy couldn't see anything around him, and that must've made the entire situation worse. His fists were clenched and shaking, and he was breathing heavily._

_But I will never forget Fang. Seeing my family surrounded by psychotic gun-yielding guards, each with a White Coat standing above them with a needle, had caused my face to tense up to the point of practically splitting over my cheeks. But seeing Fang, trying so hard to escape his bonds that it looked like he was having a seizure, caused my entire being to freeze. My blood turned to ice, and my pulse simultaneously sped up and slowed down. He was yelling savagely, conveying his fury at being restrained, self-hatred for getting caught, and, worst of all, his raw horror. Even worse, he was looking right into the camera. _

_Ter Borcht appeared again. "I realized, Max, zat you vould not give in vith ze needles. I just wanted ze excuse to cause you pain." Fang yelled something at Ter Borcht. I couldn't hear what he said, but by the savage punch he was given, it wasn't anything nice. "But now, you must choose: will you leave ze Flock? Or do I have to kill zem all?"_

* * *

I react on impulse: I immediately spread my wings, tearing that crappy white shirt, and knock Nathaniel off his feet. He gapes as the gun goes flying. I catch it and aim at him, kicking myself for being so hasty. Archer had warned me about that move, not to make it an instinctive thing. Why oh why do I never listen?

I blame hormones. And guns, I think to myself, as I rub my index finger up and down the trigger for effect.

"What...you, how--ah, what..." Nathaniel scrambles to get up, but I point the barrel at him.

"Do not move!" I say, enunciating each word.

Nathaniel wipes the trail of blood that was cascading out of his left nostril. "You can't be serious!" he finally manages to eek out, but in a high-pitched voice.

"I am serious. One hundred percent. Do not move, unless you think you can live with a hole in your head. Seriously." I cross the small distance to get to Nathaniel, who is slumped across the staircase. I stand behind him, wrap an arm around his neck (thank God for my unnatural height), and use the other hand to point the gun at his head.

Nathaniel is smart enough not to squirm, but he still stiffens in a silent protest. As I adjust my hold on man and gun, I think, _Now what?_

An idea hits like a punch in the face.

Nathaniel and I slowly make our way back up to Fang's room. As soon as he opens the door, I shove Nathaniel inside and slip in after him.

"You're already trusting me with your hostage, Max?" Fang asks, arching an eyebrow. "What an honor."

"I need help getting out of here," I say, throwing the gun on the floor (not a safe move). "My cover's blown, and Nathaniel here has seen my wings." Fang's eyes widen, the first drastic emotion his face has portrayed the entire night. "I was thinking about using him as leverage to get out of this place."

Fang stays quiet, which is a bit of a shock in itself. Then he says, "I don't think that's what's supposed to happen, Max," he says quietly, picking up the gun and running his hands over the smooth surface.

"What?" A feeling of unease makes my heart beat faster. I should run. I should knock him out. Better yet, I should _terminate _the dude.

"Nothing personal," he says. My foot is raised in mid-step, preparing myself to run my fastest out of the room, but he moves faster. In one swift move, he clocks the gun across my face. I stumble backward, caught off-guard, mind functioning at super-speed. My cheek hurts.

When he sees that I'm still conscious, he hits me in the other cheek. Fireworks explode in my brain, and I slump to the floor, furious but subdued. I'm in a strange state of unrest: I'm awake, but my body is unresponsive. I'm aware of Fang slumping me over his shoulder while Nathaniel says something to him. A gunshot rings out. I'm carried downstairs, through a network of hallways, poorly lit by a dangling, naked bulb every few feet. The dim light makes me hurt all over.

Finally, he stops outside a door and, with his free hand (God, he's gotten strong) knocks. A familiar voice responds, and he opens it and carries me down, before setting me gently (psh) on a chair. It's so uncomfortable, I feel myself waking up just enough to raise my head. Before I can summon the strength for further action, a handcuff is latched around my left wrist and locked to the chair leg. My right hand is likewise restrained.

"Where's Nathaniel?" I hear Ms. Merrill ask.

"Dead, by her," Fang says acidly. I open my eyes and blink in the light, or lack thereof. It's ridiculous, almost; the room is so dark, I can barely gain hold of my thoughts, if that makes any sense.

"Ah," she sighs, not sad, but disappointed. "I'll have to find a new agent now."

Wha--?!

I realize I've spoken aloud when Merrill says, "You didn't realize? Funny, I thought Archer would pay a little more attention to the details the second time around."

"A-archer?" I cough, feeling blood rise in the back of my throat. Some of it dribbles out of my lip.

"You're not the only infiltrator he's sent our way." Merrill laughs, actually sounding gleeful. "The first didn't even get as far as _you_. She was picked off the minute she entered the hotel. But that was unfortunate for us. We didn't get any information out of her, regarding a certain man's whereabouts." Out of nowhere, her fingernail caresses my cheek. I jerk backwards.

"Fortunately, you're alive." A light clicks on overhead, casting a faintly green hue over the room. Fang is standing near the door, guading the room, while Merrill is hovering to my left, over a table. She steps aside, and I suddenly feel sick.

Assembled on the table are an array of needles and tweezers. Merrill, holding a cigarette between her lips, smiles.


	14. Chapter 14

_Of course I said yes. _

_Ter Borcht smiled triumphantly, and before I knew it I woke up in a homeless shelter. I didn't know where my flock was, and I was in such horrible pain that i couldn't get out of bed for almost three days._

_During that time, I felt so pathetic. I considered myself a traitor, that I could've fought harder if I really cared. Worst of all, I thought the Flock was mad at me. I thought they hated me for going back on them. It made the whole situation easier when I started believing they'd kicked me out._

_My life felt broken, confused. What was I supposed to do without my Flock?_

_And then Archer came._

* * *

"So, Maximum?" Merrill holds a silver lighter to the end of her cigarette. It's monogrammed in gold with her initials, M.M. "How is Archer doing? Is he still after the diamond business?"

I stay quiet.

"You don't have to answer that," Merrill says. "What you do have to answer is: where is he right now? Is he tucked safely away in some foreign country?" She leans down and breathes her smoke into my face. "Is he here in Africa? Is he in my hotel, even?"

Again, nothing. Merrill sighs, disappointed at my silence, but her glee is evident when she puts out her cigarette on my shoulder.

"Jesus Chr--!" I catch myself. Merrill can't know how much that hurt. It really didn't hurt that bad, I convince myself, trying to ignore it. In the corner of my eye, I see Fang startle a little bit. The burn begins to feel icy cold, and horribly painful.

"I want you to know, Max," Merrill says, turning towards the tray. "I enjoy your silence." She picks up a small container and proceeds to sprinkle a powdery substance on the burn. It feels like a thousand needles are embedding themselves in the wound.

"Salt," she explains.

Of course. Fang has a strange look on his face.

"At least tell me whether he's in Africa or not," Merrill says with apathy, but her facial expression tells different. "It's a big country. It would take us weeks to find him if he were."

"Then what's the point of me telling you?" I ask with clenched teeth.

"Because..." Merrill holds up a new instrument between each word. "It would be..." she raises a small set of shears. "Less painful..." Tweezers. "For you." As she is analyzing, I catch sight of a ring on her finger. Even in this dim lighting, it glints. Merrill notices it too, and an idea immediately reflects in her eyes.

"What I think is best about interrogation," she says, taking the ring off and showing it to me--it's embossed with an M--"is when your victim is reminded of the incident everyday, at any moment. Remembering, I don't know, the fear, the pain, the helplessness. Take my first experiment. I poked him so full of holes he could've been used as a human colander." She flicks up her lighter, the small flame igniting her features for a minute--frightening--and sticks her ring into the fire. "I suppose he only eats soup now. I mean, would _you_ ever be able to look at a fork the same way again?"

After a few minutes of her ring in the fire, she says again, "Max? Where's Archer?"

"Go to hell," I say, knowing exactly what's coming.

Merrill smiles as she brings the white-hot ring closer to my face. "You'll look nice with a brand!" she says, and I squeeze my eyes shut, wondering what exactly I've done.

And that's when I hear Fang say, "Stop."

The ring never makes contact with my skin. Instead, I hear Merrill yell in indignation as she's thrown accross the room. The handcuffs are unlocked, and Fang lifts me from the chair. "Come on," he says urgently. "Max, open your eyes!"

"Get away from me," I hiss, forcing my lids open and boring a glare into his face. Fang grabs my shoulders and tries to lift me up. I shove him away, yelping when the effort requires the use of my burned shoulder.

"Max, we need to get out of here."

"Oh yeah? How do I know you don't have a gun hidden somewhere? Stay away from me," I warn as he takes a step closer. I get behind the chair, placing it between me and him.

"Max, I'm sorry." He refuses to break his gaze. "Someone had seen you take Nathaniel. I know because they radioed up to me. They said you had wings. If I let you escape, I would've been killed. Already I'm under major suspicion."

"You're lying," I spit. But, suddenly, a horrifying thought strikes me: if they were only asking after Archer, and already knew his plans, could my comrades be at risk?

"Max," Fang says. I look at him, and for a second, I can see past the suave gangster aesthetic. I see the fifteen-year-old mutant bird kid.

A plan hatches. "Fang." I slump my shoulders. He takes another step closer...

I grab the handcuffs on the chair. I snap the open end over his right wrist. Fang looks shocked. I grab the key off the tray and unlock the handcuffs from the chair, before snapping it shut on my left wrist.

"Why the hell did you do that?!" Fang yells as I move toward the door.

I look him in the eye, giving him a withering stare. "This way, if I'm taken down, you're coming right after."


	15. Chapter 15

"There is no way."

"Fang, _please_." I don't usually like to beg, but my current situation is too dire to resort to anything else; also, I'm way too exhausted too simply knock him out with a well-placed kick.

There's also the small problem of US BEING ATTACHED AT THE WRIST.

I seriously regret that now as I stare mournfully at the cafe across the street. I thought getting out of that hellhole hotel was going to be a lot more difficult, but it turned out to be almost horrifyingly simple: I put my hair up and smudged my make-up as a simple, but convincing, disguise to avoid being detected. Fang and I grudgingly held hands to disguise the handcuffs, and I pretended to look lustfully up into his eyes as he explained to hotel security that he and his new "love" were seeking a more peaceful hotel to "relax" and "enjoy ourselves".

After he'd finished hotwiring the beat-up camry (Fang's personal car was a Mercedes, which was way too ostentatious and identifiable in this rugged town), I'd been trying desperately to think of a new plan to ditch Fang and alert Archer of the situation. Somehow, the brains behind the diamond trade had found us out. The plan was too complex to be uncovered that easily, and I wanted to know how and who let to its demise.

But first, I need caffeination.

"No. I'm not gonna risk getting caught because of your addiction to crappy drinks."

"If I pass out from exhaustion, you'll be getting caught anyway!"

He actually stops and thinks for a moment. Then, "No."

"You can't exactly stop me without make a scene," I say. I hold up my restrained wrist, and the handcuffs clink. I reach for the door handle, waiting for Fang to pull stubbornly on his side of the handcuffs. I'm shocked when my bruised wrist feels nothing but the already-familiar weight of the restraints, and look at my other half (literally). His eyes have a detached, I'm-not-here-right-now-but-can-you-leave-a-message? look about them, and his face is blanched and sweaty.

Stupidly, I seize my chance and open the door.

A gunshot rings out, and the window shatters, glass falling onto my left arm. I yelp with shock. Fang doesn't even hesitate; he steps on the gas, puts the car in reverse, and floors it. We're not even a hundred feet gone before a dangerous-looking Porsche pulls after us.

I've driven my fair share of Porsches (what can I say, I have expensive taste), and I know they go fast. Faster, say, then a Camry with chipped paint, torn seats, and an engine that is in even worse shape than Amy Winehouse. I glance at the speedometer and feel my empty stomach lurch. Even in kilometers per hour, it barely goes past 110.

Fangs purses his lips in frustration. The Porsche looms menacingly behind us. My burnt shoulder and glass-filled arm hurt more than ever.

With a bang, the car suddenly swerves to the side. Our hind tires have both been shot.

Fang and I look at each other. We both know the only solution.

Faster than I can register, the car is stopped, I'm climbing out my shot-out window, and Fang is following me. I spread my wings just in time before we both lift elegantly off the ground. A bullet wizzes past, but we're too high by now to get hit.

We fly for only a few minutes before the city's rooftops are no longer visible, and all I can so is a barren expanse of field, almost invisible in the night. Fang lands sloppily. He's cut his leg on the glass from the window, and it's deep and bleeding. He sees my arm, which is now also bleeding.

"I know a guy," he says. "He's not affiliated with those people back there, but he's not exactly a great person either."

"At this point, I'll do anything for some morphine," I admit.

* * *

Fang wasn't kidding when he was talking about his friend. Rob is his name. He's a strange-looking African man who can't be older than thirty, but with eyes that are so haunted and circled he appears much older.

"He was a child soldier for the rebel forces," Fang explains when Rob has left to find some medical supplies. I think about Richard and, strangely, feel a slight pang of worry.

When Rob returns, he sets up a light. "Ladies first," he says chivalrously. I cautiously offer him my wounded arm, which looks like nothing more than a white stick compared to his. He has a pair of tweezers and I immediately break out in a cold sweat thinking about the last time I saw those. He douses the lacerations with a liquid that makes my entire arm flame with pain, and proceeds to delicately extract each and every shard of glass as Fang explains our current situation.

"So," he says in summation, "we're going to need two guns, both small and light, and a supply of bullets."

Rob nods almost imperceptibly. "Very well."

As he finishes cleaning out my wounds, he asks if I'd like stiches. I shake my head no.

"It might be better for the healing process, but very well," he says again. Then he notices my clothes, which by now are so tattered and ripped, they look more like shreds of cloth hanging randomly off my body. I feel self-conscious for the first time in hours.

"I have a woman boarding here for a couple of nights," he says. "If you pay her, she might give you some clothes."

Fang peels off a pound note from a wad in his pocket and hands it to me. "She's in the back room." Rob beckons with a twitch of his head. I lift aside the beads that are hanging from the door payne and make my down a set of stairs into the basement. The small boarding rooms are defined by blankets, which have been strung up to serve as flimsy walls. I wonder how much Rob could possibly charge his guests, and decide that whatever it is is way too much.

Only one of the "rooms" is occupied; I can tell because I see a pair of feet through the gap between the end of the blanket and the floor. I approach it and say, "Excuse me, but--"

Almost immediately, the blanket is pulled away violently, and I'm standing face-to-face with Alexa.


End file.
